


My Hands are Greasy (he's a mean, mean machine)

by Jmeelee



Series: SterekBingo 2019 [6]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Bottoming from the Top, Explicit Sexual Content, M/M, Motorcycles, PWP, Public Sex, Racing, Sex on a Car, Sterek Bingo 2019, Supercross, Top Derek Hale/Bottom Stiles Stilinski, mechanic, sbmechanic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-24
Updated: 2019-05-24
Packaged: 2020-03-13 17:40:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,938
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18945724
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jmeelee/pseuds/Jmeelee
Summary: Stiles is a famous Supercross racer, Derek is the wrench in his pit crew, and this is just porn.





	My Hands are Greasy (he's a mean, mean machine)

**Author's Note:**

> For Sterek Bingo 2019 Theme: Mechanic
> 
> A HUGE thank you to my beta, [Novemberhush](https://novemberhush.tumblr.com/). 
> 
> Title from _Start Me Up_ by The Rolling Stones.

 

The scream of twenty-two bike engines ripping from the gate drop reverberates inside Derek’s chest, thrusting hot blood through his veins as fast as Stiles rockets down the start straight. When he hits the first tight turn with the holeshot and emerges two seconds ahead of the pack, Derek releases a puff of air he didn’t know he was holding. Stiles races well, but his starts are typically anything but strong. Their team has a long way to go until Las Vegas in May, but scoring a Triple Crown win at Anaheim to kick off the season could be the beginning of something really good.

 

“Fuck!” shouts a wrench standing next to Derek in the pit. Out in the dirt a rider cases a double. Derek winces. He remember how much that particular landing hurts the body, bike and ego from his own racing days. The mechanic rips off his hat and throws it to the sand, kicking a tough block as he storms away with the rest of his race crew.

 

Danny, their logistics man, has his headset wired in and a smirk on his lips as he watches the other team retreat with their tails between their legs. He nudges Derek. “Guess they don’t like the idea of being lapped by our boy.” It’s Danny’s job to enter competitions, set event timetables, handle financials like media, marketing and sponsorships, and he figures out which up-and-coming talent are threats. Right now Stiles, in his bright red jumpsuit, is the biggest menace in Supercross racing.  

 

“Don’t jinx us, Mahaliani,” Derek grunts back. Stiles may have jumped out to an early lead, but he’s got people hot on his heels. “This race is twenty minutes plus one lap. A lot can go wrong.”

 

“Shut up, both of you,” says Scott, their crew Chief, ignoring the theatrics and never taking his eyes off Stiles as he skims across the tops of the whoops. “All those training hours are kicking in. Have some faith.”  Stiles _has_ put in his practice time this season, and it shows. Derek can’t quell the pride swelling in his chest as Stiles skillfully rides the bike Derek built him.

 

Derek got his start as a kid in his father’s shop, tearing down bikes and rebuilding them with custom components, racing his creations and going back to the drawing board to alter them to perfection. At eighteen he’d walked out of the garage with aspirations of being out there in the dirt like Stiles, but a brutal crash in a qualifier left him with shattered bones and a busted dream. Back then, both he and Stiles were racing in the lites division, their rivalry the stuff of legends. While recovering from a dozen surgeries, Derek fell back in love with tinkering, and realized his dream hadn’t died after all. He may not be meant to lead the pack, but he sure as hell could build a bike that got a rider over the finish line. Stiles knew it too, and solemnly asked Derek to be his head mechanic when he moved up to the 450s, anticipating a rebuke because of their bad blood on the track.

 

“We’re each fine on our own,” Stiles said that fateful afternoon, “but together we’d be better.”

 

His shocked face when Derek accepted still makes him laugh. And Stiles had been right; they were better together. It took a few years and a lot of races, but today they’re as much friends as work associates, their partnership as fierce as their rivalry once was.

The race wears on, a few nasty crashes gain Stiles some valuable breathing room from riders biding their time, searching for signs of weakness, waiting to strike. He blurs past the pit, a demon for speed decked out in a red jersey and pants. But with two minutes to spare he’s overtaken by Donovan, a rider who’s been stalking him.

 

Derek grips the aluminum railing so hard his knuckles crack. Donovan’s good, and Derek doesn’t want to see Stiles lose to him in the last stretch.

 

“It’s okay,” says Boyd, their transport man. He slaps a meaty hand down on one of Derek’s hunched shoulders and squeezes. “No one leads gate to flag in a race this long,” he reminds Derek.

 

For the next one hundred and twenty seconds, Derek watches the dog fight with a galloping heart.

 

A triple jump shoots Stiles forty feet in the air, gaining him some distance, and he lands smoothly, coming around the bend into the last straight away. He hits the throttle coming up the closing jump, a blur of light and sound and color flying seventy feet in the air. He does a whip, one final _fuck you_ to the rabid drivers nipping at his heels. Derek watches the Hail Mary move play out simultaneously before his eyes and on huge screens mounted around the arena.

 

Stiles takes the checkered flag to the chorus of forty-five thousand cheering fans. Scott, Danny, Boyd and the rest of the crew fall into a triumphal group hug, screaming in joy. Out on the track, Stiles is still wearing a helmet and covered head to toe, but Derek can tell he’s smiling.  

 

They head back under the bleachers to the pop-up garages, whooping and hollering the whole way. Fans are already milling around, waiting for the racers to roll in. Stiles will be basking in adoration from fans, posing for selfies and signing autographs until the small hours of the morning.  

 

A tired engine emits a low growl as Stiles pulls up next to Derek in the pit. Stiles swings his leg over the bike, handing it over to Derek for the customary cool down and check over, sliding off his helmet, still speckled with muck from when he was roosted. “You rode well out there,” Derek praises. “Really well.”

 

Stiles pants, like he ran the whole race, arm trembling from the abating adrenaline, placing his palm against Derek’s hard chest as he leans in to be heard over the crowd. “Thanks. It’s a smooth ride with you between my legs, Hale.”

 

Derek’s mouth drops at Stiles’ wicked grin, friendly, open face adorably creased from the cheek pads inside his helmet. Despite the sweat and dirt, he’s as far from a rough-and-tumble biker as a person can get. Derek scrubs a hand over the scruff on his jaw, but before he can reply Danny pulls Stiles toward the sports media waiting like vultures to pick apart his win.

 

Stiles throws a long-lashed wink over his shoulder, and Derek knows it’s going to be a long night.

 

****

 

It’s three am by the time the pop of champagne bottles and camera flashes has fizzled. The race and practice bikes have been torn down, cleaned, greased and handed over to Boyd to be loaded into the trailer and driven back to Beacon Hills tomorrow. A single day of rest awaits Derek back home at his loft before they’re at it again, practicing and tweaking and making magic in the dirt.

  


Other than their time on the box, posing with a trophy, sponsor merch and beautiful women in bikinis, Derek hasn’t seen hide nor hair of Stiles. He chalks Stiles’ salacious statement up to an adrenaline filled one-off; blood runs hot after a win. Stiles probably has a model or two behind the bleachers right now, celebrating his victory. He’ll saunter into the complimentary breakfast at the hotel tomorrow morning, hungover, forgetting the comment he made. Derek tries not to think too hard about it, and packs his tool bag.

 

The shrill _whoop-whoop_ of the Camaro’s automatic unlock pulses across the eerie silence of the parking garage, as loud as the thick, unrelenting heartbeat in his ears when he finds someone lounging against his passenger side door.  “How’d you escape all your adoring fans?” Derek goes for unaffected, but the emotion saturating his words gives him away.

 

Stiles stretches like a cat, back bowing off the fiberglass. “I have my ways.”

 

Derek glances around the almost-deserted garage as he covers the last few feet to stand beside Stiles. “Shouldn't you be back at the after party? The model with the strawberry-blonde hair was right up your alley.”

 

Stiles juts out his chin. “Would you rather I not be here?”

 

The trunk pops with an echoing beep, and Derek tosses in his toolbag, slamming it shut before coming back to Stiles, bracketing him against the car with thick arms. “No.  But we work together,” Derek reminds him. He wants this to happen, _them_ to happen, and he won’t deny it, but he’d be remiss if he didn’t at least remind Stiles of the repercussions his victory high might be blinding him to.

 

Stiles fists one hand into the front of Derek’s sweaty white t-shirt, the other hand sneaking under the gap in the worn fabric. “We do work _really well_ together, don’t we? I told you so.” Stiles’ fingertips are exploring the ridges of Derek’s obliques. “Those whoops today were harder than your abs. I deserve a treat for a job well done.”

 

“You’re insufferable.”

 

As usual, Stiles throws himself in full throttle, no hesitation. “You ain’t seen nothing, yet,” he whispers, removing his hands from Derek’s already over-heated body to draw his jersey over his head.

 

“Don’t you…” Derek swallows, mouth dry. “Don’t you want to take this back to the hotel? We’re in public. Someone could step out of the stairwell or elevator at any moment.” Derek watches Stiles strip with hot fascination, breath coming in panicky, aroused huffs. Each discarded layer—boots, gloves, heavy-duty chest and arm guards—exposes more of his tall, lithe frame, powerful and agile.  Stiles pulls a few foil packets from his pants pocket and tosses them on the windshield before letting the pants fall to the asphalt.

 

“Guess you better be a fast ride.” Stiles naked is a glorious sight. A gorgeous line of dark hair and smooth, pale skin leads from his hard, leaking cock to his flat belly, branching out along his defined chest. He tips back his long, mole-dappled neck, completing the captivating view.

 

Derek pulls all that mouth-watering skin forward. “You’re an idiot.” He laughs, and seals his mouth over Stiles’ soft pink lips. Derek’s hard pressed to remember a time he’s laughed during sex. Lately, his hook-ups are a means to an end, and he hasn’t enjoyed a simple kiss this much since he was young and stupid, and fancied himself in love. But with Stiles it’s like all the gears finally fit together; it’s smooth, it works.

 

“The only idiot around here is you,” Stiles says, breaking their kiss. He swipes his tongue along Derek’s bottom lip. “You still have all your damn clothes on. Let me help remedy that.”

 

They’re a tangle of limbs, lips and material before Derek’s clothes pool on the concrete. He scrabbles for the door handle. “Let’s get in,” he gasps, dizzy with want.

 

“Hell no,” Stiles retorts, dragging Derek by the back of the neck to the front of the Camaro, pushing him onto his back across the hood. “We’re doing this _right here_.”

 

 _This is crazy_. Derek braces both heels against the front bumper as Stiles climbs on top of him, abs and thighs contracting, keeping them from sliding across the waxed black hood. Stiles grabs the packets of lube off the windshield, ripping several pouches open at once with his teeth, splashing some of the liquid across two fingers.

 

“Wait.” Derek grabs his wrist. “I want to be the one who does it.”

 

“Next time.” Stiles bats Derek’s hand away. “I may have burned off some pre-race jitters by fucking myself, imagining what it would be like if it were _you_. This won’t take long at all.”

 

Derek watches, slack-jawed, as Stiles snakes a hand between his legs and works himself open right over him. He runs his hands up Stiles’ straining thighs, leg hair tickling his palms as he listens to Stiles’ gasps and moans. Stiles’ lips are as shiny, red and swollen as the head of his cock. The sights and sounds of Stiles’ pleasure are too much, and Derek can’t help but palm at his own dick to relieve some of the mounting tension in his balls.

 

“More lube,” Stiles commands. “Use it on your cock. Get yourself ready. I’m there.” Derek fumbles for the half-full packets, dribbling the rest over his dick and spreading it from head to base. Stiles’ hand is there, reaching between them, grabbing ahold of Derek’s cock and holding it steady as he lowers himself with agonizing slowness.

 

“Open up,” Derek whispers, holding back from thrusting with sheer willpower. “Come on, let me in.” And Stiles does, relaxing with each shuddering breath. The long fingers of his other hand curl around Derek’s shoulder, twitching with each jolt of pleasure-pain as he slowly slides down Derek’s cock, inch by inch, until he’s fully seated.

  


Stiles hisses, trim, muscular thighs clinging tight to Derek’s hips as he rocks down. Within seconds, dirty, delicious sounds echo through the car park: the slick squelch of lube and the addictive, choked noise Stiles makes when Derek presses into him, a hurt, pleased little thing. Liquid bliss gallops through Derek’s veins; better than drugs, better than burning rubber blowing through the finish line.

 

Stiles bounces up and down, grinding fast and furious, dick heavy between his legs. Derek’s a bike, whole system responding, working to get him and Stiles _there_ together. His mind and body are running in tangent, nerves singing, blood churning, heart pumping wildly, using all his horsepower. Too quick, a sheen of sweat breaks out over his body and his back slides down the metal. Derek reluctantly drops his hands from the warm, damp skin along the ridges of Stiles’ spine to palm at the hood. Later, he promises himself, he’ll tongue the two little divots above Stiles’ ass. _Next time_.

 

He feels the moment in sharp relief, Stiles a flesh-and-blood live wire in his lap, the only vibrant thing in a concrete wasteland. Their hips snap in a rhythmic tempo, gazes locked. The hot, firm grip and filthy squish-slide of his cock in Stiles’ ass makes his ball tighten, but he doesn’t want this to ever end. Or maybe he does, so they can immediately do it again.

 

“Tell me you like it,” Derek demands, eager to hear Stiles’ voice, to know this is real and not some elaborate fantasy he’s fabricated from having Stiles so close for years, yet never being able to have _him_.

 

Stiles laughs, face alight, trailing a sticky fingertip over Derek’s cheek, his lips. “Oh, I don’t _like_ it, Derek. I love it.”

 

He can’t hold off. The words are a kick in his chest, a spike of adrenaline. An electric surge of pleasure buzzes at the base of his spine, bows his back off the black hood. Stiles flicks one of Derek’s nipples, a self-satisfied fire licking at the corners of his smile when Derek whimpers, coming hard inside him.  

 

“Holy _fuck_.” Derek sprawls on the hood, a red-faced, shuddering mess.

Stiles stares at him with hooded eyes, still seated fully on top of him with shallow, panting breaths and leaking cock. Derek can already feel cum trickling out of Stiles’ hole, dripping over his balls onto the custom paint job.

 

He peels his sweaty back off the car, wrapping one strong arm around Stiles’ torso, sliding down the hood until his bare feet touch the cool cement. Derek kisses Stiles’ lush mouth, then pulls out, twisting him around so Derek’s pressing his chest to Stiles’ back.

 

“You’re going to come with me inside you,” Derek proclaims, slipping two fingers back into Stiles’ loose hole, the other hand coasting down his body from neck to chest, over his flat belly into the thicket of brown pubic hair and circling his cock. Stiles’ hips push into the warm grip, fucking his fist. Derek skims his fingers against Stiles’ prostate, once, twice, rubbing relentlessly and backing away, over and over until Stiles’ thrusts go erratic. Derek expects shouting, maybe the fist pumping of when Stiles wins a race, but instead he goes stiff, still and silent, the only sound a quiet _uhh_ , paper-thin and effervescent, pulled from his arched throat. He shakes in Derek’s grip, coasting out the ride of pleasure as he smears the black metal in front of him with white cum.

 

Their sweat’s still cooling when the elevator across the garage chimes, doors splitting open like the gates of hell to emit a few straggling party-goers. “Shit!” Derek curses, wrapping his arms around Stiles and rolling them over the hood to the ground beside the driver-side front tire, skinning his elbow on the asphalt. They scrabble on hands and knees. Derek reaches up, pops the handle and plants a palm on Stiles’ ass, pushing him into the car.

 

Once safely situated inside the car, hysterical laughter ensues. “Do you think they saw us?” Derek asks, winded.

 

Stiles wipes tears from the corners of his eyes. “No idea, but _that’s_ pretty noticeable.” He points at the drying smear of cum across the hood, igniting another round of hysterics.

 

“This-” Derek motions between them- “and your win tonight, it feels…” He trails off, unsure how to articulate everything he wants to say.

 

Stiles takes ahold of Derek’s gesturing hand. “You know, you did seem like you wanted to try things out in the back seat earlier.” They hold each other’s eyes, a world of promise between them. They’re laughing again as they crawl over the console.

 

 _Yeah_. This is definitely the beginning of something really good.

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> I'm [Jamie!](https://jmeelee.tumblr.com/)Thank you for reading. If it wasn't already obvious, I am NOT an expert on Supercross LOL. Sorry for any mistakes.


End file.
